Indulgence
by Almostme
Summary: Rules are meant to be broken; let's treasure the moments of freedom, whether they come in sudden spurs of righteousness or immense acts of greatness.


**Indulgence**

**Author's Note: I've been studying a lot of you. I mean, I've noticed a lot about the people who write on here, and am attempting to come out completely unparalleled. I promise to upload my best stuff, and be a good friend as long as you do the same. To start out our friendship, I will give you this first chapter of my first fan fiction as well as three sneak peeks at three up-and-coming fan fictions for various fandoms. We'll be good friends. That should be our thing! Good Friends. Well, on with the story! I hope you enjoy, and my sneak peeks will be posted on my tumblr page shortly [See profile for details]. (I've always wanted to say that.)**

**Chapter One**

_ Rules are meant to be broken; let's treasure the moments of freedom, whether they come in sudden spurs of righteousness or immense acts of greatness._

I would have thought that when you come up with a great idea―spontaneous as can be, completely your own―that you'd have heard it somewhere, sometime, some universe. That it is not your own, no matter what he says, she says, they say, we say. Because no matter what universe or century or continent, it is still you, with your subconscious and your way of thinking―yours because all the others are taken.

I could have sworn that I've read or seen or heard or said the words Annabelle Lee at least once in my life before I entered Upper Levels. We don't actually read much, but when we do, it's always something old―no one has authored an actual _book_ for reading besides Erudite., and the chances of them giving us _anything_ are beyond low.

In re of the Erudite, they and the Abnegation have despised each other for almost a decade now (well, it's not so much mutual as it is the Erudite believing we're devious thieves who want the glory of governing the city to ourselves. Frankly, only the few members of the council would be part of that glory―they're the only ones who _govern_ the city. Not all of Abnegation. Not most.).

As I read, I can't help but ponder, however, if the title was, in fact, my idea (not for the particular story, of course).

I ought to be scolded for have taken such time to _think, _especially with the added responsibility of reading―Abnegation does not, in the least, tolerate indulgence.

"How dare I?" I murmur, leaning my chin into the edge of the desk. The corner of my lip lifts, but I hide my head in the book.

I like to think, though.

And I realize that it is not who I am that defines me, rather it is who I want to be.

Who do I want to be? Someone who can indulge without the added thought of "I shouldn't be doing this."

Although, I did kick my mother all those times when I was in her womb those nine months. All wrongs have a consequence; it's a fitting comeuppance, I'd think.

I don't get far into the story before I am called for dinner. Slowly―but surely―I enter the dining room, and take my seat amongst my complacent Abnegation family to eat the flavorful and healthy meal of grilled―unseasoned―chicken and vegetables.

I only greet my parents with a nod as I sit down, my eyes drifting to my brother in acknowledgement. My mother and brother reach for my hand and I hold them as my father prays, all of our hands interlocked. We are one of the few families who pray, and we make sure to do so every night during dinner time.

I like to believe there is a God up there, using the most logic as possible for reasons as to why He hasn't answered my prayers.

_ You're not meant to know everything. Ignorance is human consciousness―one without the other is either animalistic or nonexistent._

My father finishes his prayer, and my family's hands drop. I could feel guilty for having not listened―I want to―but I'm tired of feeling guilty. I'm tired of needing to chastise myself every time I zone out from a conversation because I like to think. I'm tired of whispering when I want to scream; I'm tired having to be someone I'm not. I'm tired of disappointing my parents, my faction.

And most of all, I'm tired of being tired.

I wait until everyone has picked up their forks to do the same, feeling as if I should be tip-toeing through everything, tentative. If I move too fast I may awaken the beast that is my faction, and cause it to destroy everything that is and will ever be me.

My brother puts his fork down in tandem with me picking mine up, eyeing me as he does so. I get a lot of these looks from him and my mother, the critical "Do something, because you want to" look that tells me we are the most defined and unconventional Abnegation family there is.

Aiden is so calm, though; people may think he is always stoned. I've learned a lot about people by studying them―the way they walk, talk, eat, blow their noses, chew their nails―but in all of the years I've _lived_ with Aiden, I can't figure out a damned thing…

…other than the taunting fact that he is an enigma is all.

Whether we are cognizant of it or not, everyone puts out a vibe, per se, that is absolutely palpable it could be the sixth sense. My brother's is commanding, controlling, intimidating.

Except to me, of course―although his motives are so _achingly_ unclear, I know that the worst he could do is severely confuse a person for hours on end.

Even now, during the family meal, I scrutinize him as surreptitious as possible with a table full of people who are hyper—aware of what everyone could possibly want and need―or at least people who try to be.

"Was work well?" my mother asks my father. Though unnecessary, I'm grateful for the inquiry―my family is always so quiet it makes me want to do something wild like snap a neck.

I just steel myself, clench my fork as well as my teeth, and shut up.

I'd wanted to ask my father if he was alright, because even now, his shoulders slump and he doesn't seem as apprehensive as usual; he just seems tired.

I can't however; I can't speak unless addressed by either my mother or father.

"It's nothing to burden you with," my father says. He moves to put his hand over my mother's but hurriedly retracts it, realizing that he too has his un-Abnegation habits. He clears his throat. "I'm not even sure there is a problem."

My mother nods. "Alright, Ulysses." And then she puts her hand over his, smiling deferentially. "How is school for you, children?"

_I swear, my mother could be an actress._

"Everything is falling into place, mother," Aiden says, not looking up from his food. "Perfectly."

My mother nods again, smiling wider. She turns her attention to me, and I try hard not to mess this up.

_Say something good, but not too good; don't be too vague though, _I think. _Anything but vague._

"School is great, mother," I say softly.

_Nailed it._

Her piercing green eyes linger on mine before she smiles again; this time the smile reaching her eyes, crinkling them on the edges.

My mother's eyes compel me, and I always find myself analyzing the expressions they form. Her green eyes are uncommon for Abnegation, as well as her silky black hair.

I like to believe I am most like her, despite our differences. She has wavy black hair, whereas my blond hair is pin-straight and thin. Her hooked nose resembles my brother's and mine, my dad's. My mother has full lips; I have a spare upper one and a full lower one. Deep-set eyes, not deep-set; freckles, no freckles. The only similarity is our insurgence.

I remember times when I was small and my mother would sneak me to one of the buildings unoccupied by the factionless and just get away. I think she was the reason I was never _not_ able to be…

…rebellious?

Overly optimistic?

Obnoxiously unorthodox?

My mother was always so _obligingly_ rebellious; I had only ever wanted to do the same. I long to inquire her about the constancy of her insurgence, however, once again, I'm not allowed to ask questions.

Absentmindedly, I stab at my food, the friction of my fork against the plate emitting a sharp, grating screech, and I inadvertently disturb our meal.

"Are you finished with your dinner?" my mother asks while my father fumes, staring daggers at me. My mother looks between my brother and I, her eyebrows raised slightly.

_She's telling you to leave_.

"I will wash the dishes," I say, taking everyone's plates and utensils to the kitchen counter.

I scrape the excess food into the trash and wash the dishes languidly, my wrist flicking and twirling to a song that is almost nonexistent, save for the flow of the water and the coil sponge against the dishes.

Aiden joins me as I'm finishing the second plate, entertaining himself with drying.

Our elbows bump occasionally, and although I try to convince myself that it's accidental at first, I know he's trying to get my attention―probably to make a funny face or flick soap in my own. He was always that kind of person, no matter how old he got.

"Momma's girl," he muses as he crosses the hallway to his room.

"Mockery is considered self-indulgent and is frowned upon here in Abnegation." I know he was teasing me, but there was no smile on his face.

His lips are pressed into a tight line as he looks me over. He steps to me slowly, only glancing down the stairway before he leans over me. He speaks urgently, his lips barely moving as his words flow rapidly. "So I've heard. Has it ever occurred to you that this family and all the others are how you say, _human_? We're people, as in, we are unique individuals with brains and bladders and no common sense whatsoever. Any of this rings a bell? Normally, I wouldn't like to _literally question _the system―as corrupt as it is―but don't you think we should let this whole 'be a complacent faction member' bullshit go? I certainly think so. I mean, isn't it only a matter of time before one, most, _all _of us demands something different? Something natural?"

"I think you're an idiot for believing people would want to do such a thing," I refute.

"It's not so much a belief as it is a hope, Char." He shrugs. "I don't think I _believe_ in anything, anymore."

I shake my head. "Still," I start. "What's the sense in _hoping _for the impossible? We have propriety as you said, and there's no good reason to defy it―it's inevitable."

He plays with the knot on my head, pulling a few strands of it out and letting them fall. He never fails to challenge something in some way, and just this act reminds me that we both have our mother in us.

"Think about what you just said, Charlotte. You can ask yourself questions like 'Am I sure this is what I believe?' and 'Are things really that easy?' and 'Isn't Aiden always right, anyway?'"

_He never fails to be a self-aggrandizing prick, either._

"Besides," he says. "Aren't you the one who only _dreams_ of getting away?"

"And what do you want, Aiden?" I ask, almost relieved as the words leave my mouth; I'd wanted to ask them for the longest time.

He toys with one of the loose strands in my hair, his expression unreadable.

"I want to live," he says, his eyes boring into mine. For the first time, my brother looks his age, he looks as if he's a sixteen year old boy with hopes and dreams and effervescence to share. I stare back at him, drinking up all of his expression, feeling a curling in my chest that only happens when I'm excited. Then he takes on his usual stoic expression, turning on his heel.

"Aiden?" I say as he opens his bedroom door. "Nice acting."

He knows what I mean, but just stares at me blankly for a while. So I turn, feeling the moment turn awkward, and start into my own bedroom.

"Charlotte?" I hear him say. I turn. "Keep thinking." And then he slips into his room.

* * *

Every night, my family and I sit in the family room and recount our day—the only time we are allowed to talk about ourselves.

Alas, I am not one to simply conform to routine. I can't stand it. So I do things my own way.

Yesterday, I walked on the left side of the stairs. Today, I am walking on the left side of the stairs. Tomorrow I will walk on the right side of the stairs. If I had walked the same side of the stairs every day, I'd get tired of it. If I went from left to right every day, I'd get tired of it. The joy I get from this may probably be illogical, may be downright stupid, however I like knowing that I hate routine. I like knowing that I'm doing something about it, no matter how menial the task.

I sit down next to Aiden on the couch that is against the wall, facing my mother and father who sit in chairs across from us.

"Hi, sweetie," my mother says when I sit down.

"Hello, mother," I reply.

I like these exchanges between my mother. They let me know her intentions, that she was purposefully raising my to be an aberration, that she wants me to be different. That I am her daughter.

"How was your day?" my father asks, looking at Aiden, and then to the rip on my side of the couch. I don't think he likes saying his name. He'd wanted to name him something else; I don't know why he didn't. I always thought he'd wanted to put my mother's desires first, but my mother would try to do the same. They would have agreed on one they both liked.

My brother doesn't seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn't care. "This day went by as the others. School was ordinary. However, we did learn about this bizarre holiday that they celebrated before the factions were around in Factions History. For a day, people played pranks on each other... as a holiday. They called it April Fool's day, and by the looks of it, it wasn't that important."

My mother laughs quickly, quietly, the laugh picking up at the end as if she weren't breaking a rule every time she did that or smiled too widely or talked too openly. "I guess we know why that isn't a holiday anymore."

I can't help it; I smile.

"Charlotte," my father says.

"I have no concerns or regrets. School was great, just as always."

My mother nods, smiling warmly. She turns her attention to my father, whose lethargic demeanor has yet to liven. "How was your day, Ulysses? You have seemed disheartened since you've been home."

"There was only one shortcoming of my afternoon, but it is really not of your concern. The council had made a decision not to speak about it in the hopes of not worrying the people of our community, and I have to respect that," he says, looking between all of us. "Trust me; it will be taken care of." And he kisses the back of my mother's hand, finally smiling a little.

...

As I do most nights, I change into the clothes I wore today, slip my knife into the waistband of my pants, and peel open the window―I would do it every night, but I'd get tired of it.

Maybe it's the way I feel, or it really is depressing to walk down these roads, but I feel it as if the grieving air is a layer of my own skin.

I roam the dilapidated roads that make up the majority of our faction, as I've done every day for the past three years. Nothing about this has changed aside from the slow–growing grass, ever so varying temperatures, and me.

When I began taking these walks, I was tentative and wouldn't stay out longer than twenty minutes. Now, though, I've become more familiar with the flickering streetlights, attuned to the soft murmuring of the trees conversing with each other, their cryptic messages consuming the late evening air.

It is nearing the middle of spring, though the crisp, desiccated temperature begs to differ. I only leave the house in regular clothes, wanting to relish the—anticipated—reviving air that seemed to have been suffocated during the winter months, but the temperature always had a reputation for being absolutely capricious.

Our faction has no leniency toward indulgent acts such as "relishing in the reviving air". They've completely abolished the phrase and others like it from our vocabularies… or at least try to. They still can't control what we think, what we feel, what we want. Even so, we still abide by their rules, go about our days as caged animals, sulking and writhing.

That's why I'm here: because they don't want me to be.

I am not a pawn in their chess game. I am nothing that I should be.

I just am, and people don't like it.

I've heard the Amity play music sometimes, and they really enjoy when they are asked to. I remember once, when I was even too sick to leave my room, let alone eat anything. I just slept for days. My mother asked an Amity to play a song for me. She came upstairs, with a banjo, and didn't ask questions. She played three songs, all the while my mother had tears springing in here eyes.

"Are you okay, mother?" I asked her when the Amity with the Banjo left.

A tears left her cheek. Then another. And she looked at me, held my cheek and said: "I hope you enjoyed that."

"I did, mother." I ate dinner downstairs that night. My mother wouldn't stop smiling.

The Abnegation don't listen to music, however—little pleasures such as that are frowned upon here, where we give our seats up for others and cook meals _for_ _each other _and cater to everyone's whims because we are trying to be better people than the ones before us―my mother's excuse was she did it for me, to make me happy.

I hear the faint strumming of an instrument, though. It sounds nothing like the banjo, or at least, the one I heard. I don't know where it's coming from, and I don't think I should care.

I walk towards the sounds, though. Usually, I am cautious about where I go and who sees me, but right now I'm not. Right around the corner, the strumming clarifies, and I know for sure it is like nothing I've ever heard. I know of the guitar―they explain it to us in school, whether we're Amity or not―and when I see it, it becomes even more bizarre.

I can't make out a face, but there is a fire, burning precariously in the dark of the night. And the guitar, and hands. Hands, strumming, crackling. It seems warm, _inviting_.

And she sings, the sound reverberating and ricocheting off of the buildings, the trees, the air, although she is quiet, reverent.

_"I know I've made my mistakes,_

_I've bred my colors, black and white._

_There's now so much that I'd take,_

_Controlled my desires, laid my grave._

_And it seems, _

_That the doors just open, waiting for me_

_To take their place,_

_But I still stay..."_

When I realize that I've exposed myself too much is when I hear a shuffling, and see her stand.

"Hey, stranger," she calls. I move away from the wall. "I should have expected someone to hear me someday."

Her voice is heavy, like the Amity, the vowels melding with her accent.

"Wait," she says. "You're a Stiff... what are you doing out here?"

I know the inquiry is innocent—her voice is literally dripping with the kiddish joy you get from meeting a new friend as a child—but it still stings. No matter where I go, or what I do, I'm just "A _Stiff"._

I walk closer to her, because she has a fire. The flames lick the air below me, cradling it, and me, in its warmth.

That's when I finally look at her. Her black clothes completely throw me off, because although I've been looking right at her, she's been Amity the whole time.

"Escaping," I say, giving in.

She chuckles. "Something we have in common."

I knit my eyebrows together, looking up at the girl. "You're Dauntless-turned. It was your choice, why would you want to escape?"

"Good observation," she says. She sits back down, and taps her fingers against her thigh. She smiles. "My name's Rhea." She doesn't answer my question.

"Charlotte." I sit down, too. No matter what, I know I'd want to stay a while. "I never see you around here."

"You come here often?" I nod. "That's why."

Laughing, I say: "It's almost hard to tell if you're completely Amity or Dauntless. You talk and act like both..."

"You don't know many people." I shake my head "no". "Well, you now know me, and I know _many_ people."

"I don't know," I say, smiling. It has never been this easy talking to anyone. Usually, when I come out here, I go as far as the edge of the factionless sector, wanting to be as far from the people I can't be but am supposed to mirror. I don't have to do that tonight.

Whether my Aptitude test says it or not, I think I may choose Dauntless. Despite my apparent loathing for system, I know I probably would have chosen that without ever meeting Rhea.

"Dauntless don't strum acoustic."

"Dutifully noted." She nods, placing the instrument on her lap. "Too bad I don't give a damn."

I laugh, and she smirks. "Terrible tragedy, that."

"You've got a test coming tomorrow, don't you want to sleep?"

"Were you able to sleep the night before your test?" I ask.

"Like a baby who just crapped a load!" she says. I smile. "Really though, you're not at all worried?"

"Not so much worry as it is reluctance." I say, moving my hand in a dome around the fire, probably too close to the flames. "If I didn't have to go, I wouldn't."

"Stemming from your apprehension," she says, raising her eyebrow matter-of-factly. "You didn't hear about the riot?"

My eyes narrow instinctively, and she purses her lips, probably hoping to take it back. I heard her though, saw her lips form every syllable, which, unfortunately, cannot be undone. "What riot?" I say.

"The Candor and Erudite," Rhea says in a rush. I raise my eyebrows; she continues. "It was on the border. I don't know the details, but it seems like they were fighting for territory or something, the way I was told." She shakes her head. "The Candor: I can understand, but the Erudite? No way. I mean, they're too… arrogant to want to start a fight over something as trivial as who claims which side of the road―"

"Something else, then," I say, more like an answer to a question. Rhea nods. "But what?"

She takes a while to respond. "We may never find out."

We sit in silence for a while, me watching the flames, and Rhea plucking idly at the guitar.

The strange thing was, Rhea expected me to know about the riot. Despite her knowing my faction would try to isolate themselves from any exterior calamity, she still thought I knew. Was it because she may have seen me somewhere, may think that I don't pay attention to the rules? Or did she think I knew someone who'd tell me?

"I'm going to head back," Rhea says. "I was going to hang out with some friends, but I bailed after one of them started releasing his sick all over my dinner." She hesitates, looking down at me. Her chipper smile returns, and she swipes her hand over the fire again, almost as if she were saying a farewell. "You should sleep."

"I might stay out a while longer," I say.

"Alright. See you later, then."

"I guess." She laughs.

"I will, I promise," she says.

"Later, then," I say.

"Later."

She picks up her guitar, and leaves, taking her promise, and stuffing it her back pocket so to speak.

**A/N: PM me if you want to chat! By the way, this may or may not have anything to do with the original characters-I don't know-so... I guess we'll find out. I'll post chapters two and three soon, I just need to edit and add, the works. **


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